


you can't get in my head (i wanna see you try)

by dylansstrome



Category: Men's Hockey RPF
Genre: College AU, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, Implied/Referenced Sex, M/M, references to alcohol/drinking
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-07
Updated: 2019-03-07
Packaged: 2019-11-08 06:14:24
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,355
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17975993
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dylansstrome/pseuds/dylansstrome
Summary: Most people's lives make sense. Like, for example, most people don't name their fish after Eminem or make bets about their friends' sex lives or hook up with their childhood rival until they can't ignore their feelings any longer.Most people aren't Dylan Strome.





	you can't get in my head (i wanna see you try)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [skyscraperblue](https://archiveofourown.org/users/skyscraperblue/gifts).



> This fic is for Karen for the Strome Exchange!!
> 
> Title is from the song I Don't Like You by the Wrecks! 
> 
> Disclaimer: If you see your name or the name of anyone you personally know on this page, please do us both a favor and go get a Men In Black Brainwipe thingy done, or something. I don't own these people and this is 100% fictional, yadda yadda yadda.
> 
> Anyways, I hope that you enjoy what I've written for you!! I've had a lot of fun with it so far. Because life decided to happen at the worst possible time I'm gonna post this in chapters, but it is meant to be read as a whole story or a one-shot, so I'll probably edit it to be all together once I'm happy with the completely finished product. The rest will be up as soon as I finish editing (hopefully later tonight)! Happy reading!!
> 
> UPDATE: I just finished editing, and the full work is now complete!!! I'm so sorry that it wasn't perfect for you before, but I've made some changes that have turned this fic into something I'm really, really proud of. I hope you enjoy it in its entirety! <3

Dylan slams his locker shut, walks over to Alex and shoves his phone in his face. “Seriously, who the fuck does this McLeod guy think he is?” 

Alex looks at the screen and reads a line of the article Dylan has pulled up out loud. He chooses to ignore how Dylan mockingly parrots him the entire time he’s reading. “‘Open Bracket Strome Closed Bracket and I grew up together. We’ve always had a bit of a rivalry going on. It’s almost fitting we ended up where we did. I’m super excited to keep the flame burning.’ Dylan, he literally hasn’t said anything bad about you in this. All it says is that he’s excited for our first game, and frankly, you should be too.” 

Dylan rolls his eyes at Alex’s decision to read the punctuation out loud. “He’s totally trying to get under my skin! Seriously, can you not see that?” 

“What part of ‘I’m real excited to play with an old friend’ is offensive to you, Dylan. I would love to know,” Alex says more than asks, handing Dylan’s phone back to him. 

Dylan huffs and takes his phone back. “We were never friends! He’s being a cocky asshole and he knows it. That’s his thing, Alex. He pretends he’s this big sweetheart to everyone else, but I see right through that shit. You don’t know him like I do.” 

This is nothing Alex hasn’t seen before. He’s used to his friend acting this way. It’s been like this as long as they’ve known each other- Dylan and Mikey grew up together. If they didn’t hate each other then, they definitely do now, and being captains on opposite sides of the biggest college hockey rivalry in the country certainly doesn’t help. 

It all started in the third grade. Mikey and Dylan sat next to each other. You know when you meet someone and you just hate them right away, for seemingly no reason? That’s how Dylan felt about Mikey. Even then, as a literal eight-year-old child, he had this cocky, know-it-all air about him, and Dylan couldn’t stand it. No matter the situation, Mikey was always finding a way to outdo Dylan. He was always the first to turn in those little timed math quizzes where whoever had the most right would get a prize, and it was always right before Dylan would finish his. He also seemed to make it a point to keep his scores on vocab quizzes face-up, almost like he wanted Dylan to see the stickers on the top pages. 

It wasn’t just academics where Mikey showed off incessantly, either. He always made sure he ran faster than Dylan during the beep test, and they always ended up the last two still competing when everybody else had tapped out. Any time Dylan outlasted Mikey by one or two sprints, he slept a little better that night. 

What Dylan hated the most, though, was that Mikey wasn’t like this with anyone else. He always had more friends than Dylan, more people seemed interested in what Mikey was doing after school that day, or if Mikey wanted to go to the movies this weekend. Dylan didn’t get it- how could someone who was such an asshole to him be so nice to everyone else? Even well into high school, he was a perfect angel on the surface, especially when it came to teachers. Dylan remembers a time when they were in grade 10 where they had gotten into a fight over something stupid, probably Dylan looking at Mikey’s girlfriend the wrong way, and Mikey 101% started that shit. When it came time for them to meet with the principal about it, though, Mikey put on this act that Dylan was absolutely baffled that no one else could see through, and Dylan was sent home with a disciplinary letter saying that he’d thrown the first punch. He was grounded for a whole month. 

Fast forward 2 years, and Dylan finally felt like there was nothing to hold him back. No more beep tests, no more minute math, and best of all, no more Mikey fucking McLeod. He was on top of the world. Besides, Dylan was in college now- all that petty rivalry shit was behind him. 

Or so he thought. 

He hadn’t even been in practice for a week his first year when he learned that his childhood rival went to Oakleaf College, his own university’s rival school. He made it his goal ever since then to outplay Mikey in every way he possibly could, and it seemed to work for a while- Dylan was on top of the world for his first two college hockey seasons. They were virtually unbeatable, especially against Mikey’s team- Dylan made sure that was where they stood. It wasn’t until Dylan got the C his junior year that Silver Valley University ended their good luck streak. Dylan never stopped blaming himself for their loss that year. He wasn’t about to let it happen again. If the rivalry hadn’t existed before, it certainly did now. 

So here they were. Sure, maybe Dylan was holding on to old grudges deep down, but now he had a real reason to hate Mikey’s guts. 

Alex speaks again, shaking Dylan out of his thoughts. Apparently he’d been speaking for longer than Dylan thought this time, because the next thing he can comprehend is, “You’re not even listening to me, are you?” 

When he snaps out of it, Dylan sighs. “Sorry, Brinks. What were you saying?”

“I was telling you to stop worrying about McLeod. The less stressed you are about that shit, the better. Focus on these next few games. Don’t sweat outside the rink, dude.”

Dylan nods, heading out of the locker room and holding the door for Alex. “Yeah, you’re right. I really do need to put all of that shit behind me.”

How hard can it be?

+++

Evidently, it can be very, very hard. Like. Super fucking hard. Like, oh my God I can’t fucking handle this any longer I need you to fucking kiss me just get over here you asshole and Wow, you’re really- 

Anyway.

Dylan’s on a futon in Connor’s bedroom- his own room is occupied by God-knows-who- and he hates admitting that he remembers pretty much all of what led up to this almost as much as he hates the person whose lap he’s currently sitting in. Almost.

+++ 

“Stromer! How you been, man?”

Dylan’s chatting with some classmates when he hears an ever-familiar voice behind him, shortly followed by a probably-accidentally-too-harsh clap on the shoulder. 

“What’s up, Davo,” he says more than asks, turning to face his friend with a little smile. Although Connor’s family doesn’t own the house, he’s part of a long line of players who’ve lived there. Having spent the better part of his last two years of high school at parties held there, he’s become the team’s designated party planner-slash-host. 

“Not too much. Dancing, flirting, drinking.. hoping I can count on having the best pong partner in the whole world tonight?” Connor says, turning up his voice and leaning towards Dylan at the end, and really, for him, this is only slightly sucking up. It doesn’t take much convincing, either- there are very few things Dylan outwardly prides himself on, and on the top of the short list are hockey and beer pong.

“Sure thing. When are we playing?”

“Gimme like, ten minutes. I’m trying to get this one guy’s number- he’s a film major,” Connor winks, heading to another room to collect what Dylan can only assume is at least his third new booty call this month.

Dylan resumes his beer drinking and chip eating and small talking until Connor returns, sporting a new hickey just above his collarbone. “I’m assuming it went well?” Dylan snorts, gesturing with his cup to the mark on his friend’s chest.

“Yup,” Connor grins, repositioning the fabric to show it off. “Sixth one this month.”

Matty cheers from a nearby couch, punching the air. “Dylan owes me 20 bucks!” 

“What?”

“Don’t worry about it,” Dylan shakes his head, making a mental note to stop at an ATM before class tomorrow so Matty doesn’t nag him for the next week and a half. “We playin’ or not?” 

“Oh shit, yeah. Let’s go,” Connor nods, pulling Dylan in the direction of the banged up card table accurately and simply named The Pong Table.

The first few rounds go as expected, which is to say Dylan and Connor kick the absolute shit out of all the pairs who decide to take them on. They’re finishing up their sixth or seventh straight win when an unfortunately familiar pair of faces approach the table. 

“McLeod,” Dylan greets coldly, letting go of the tension in his body when Connor places a hand on his shoulder.

“Long time no see, Stromer. Up for another round?” he asks, flashing that stupid fucking perfect smile, and Dylan hates how that nickname sounds in his stupid fucking voice.

Perhaps noticing his internal struggle, Connor speaks up so Dylan doesn’t have to. “Sure, if you two want your asses handed to you that bad,” he remarks, fixing the cups on his and Dylan’s side of the table. 

“Shouldn’t be a problem,” the other one quips; Nate is his name, Dylan’s pretty sure. He’s never caused too many problems, and maybe in another world he and Dylan might’ve been friends, but definitely not in this one. He’s too close with Mikey, attached at the hip- Dylan’s pretty sure he wouldn’t be able to deal with all that jerk-off in one room.

Alex’s voice echoes in Dylan’s head, telling him not to let Mikey and Nate and Mikey’s perfect hair ruin his night, or more importantly, his game. 

“Let’s get on with it, then,” Dylan grumbles, collecting a handful of white plastic balls. 

For a while, they’re doing pretty well- Dylan actually thinks they have it in the bag at first. Nate clears a few cups, but Dylan matches almost all of them within a few turns, and he only drinks a few times. The streak doesn’t last though; at some point Mikey starts throwing backhanded compliments in Dylan’s direction, making his head spin. 

“So, Stromer,” he starts, just as Dylan’s trying to calculate his next shot. “How’ve you been? How’s Ryan?” He knows Mikey doesn’t actually care how Ryan is, and he probably wouldn’t humor him anyway if he did. 

“Fine,” Dylan snaps, throwing a ball and landing it right in an empty spot where a cup used to be. He curses and takes a step back, running a hand through his hair. In the time it takes him to collect himself, Mikey lands another ball on his side and whoops loudly. 

“Lookin’ good by the way, Dylan. Love the hair,” Mikey comments when Dylan’s about to take his next turn. 

Dylan ignores him and takes his next shot, but Mikey manages to get another comment in the second the ball leaves his hand, making him miss again. Dylan can hear the smirk on Mikey’s stupid face.

“You make a hot blonde.” 

Dylan goes red and the fall of the McDavid-Strome Beer Pong Empire soon follows. As they’re slinking away from The Pong Table, Mikey catches Dylan’s attention one last time. 

“Good game, Blondie,” he hums in a way that makes Dylan want to knock him out, and to make matters worse, he fucking winks at him as he and Nate are setting up for their next match. 

They lose the next game, and Dylan knows it’s on purpose, just to piss him off. He’s watching Alex and a few girls compete in a particularly intense game of Uno when Mikey swaggers into the living room, by himself this time. Dylan pretends he doesn’t see him and tries to emit some sort of McLeod Repellent brainwaves. His attempt proves futile when Mikey plops down next to him, only asking if the seat is taken after he’s on the couch. 

Dylan rolls his eyes. “This couch actually has a no douchebags allowed policy,” he mutters. 

“Weird that they let you sit here, then,” Mikey shoots back, making himself comfortable.

Before he can even come up with something to follow it up with, his phone lights up with a notification for a Snapchat from Davo. 

“Oh, what the fuck!” He opens it up just to be met with a selfie of Connor kissing a shirtless Nate on the cheek. 

Mikey must catch a glimpse of Dylan’s screen, because he chuckles to himself and takes a sip of his drink. “Your friend’s quite the flirt.”

“You don’t even know,” Dylan sighs, and it might be the beer pong loss buzz talking, but it’s the first time all night that Mikey’s voice doesn’t make him want to punch something.

Mikey hums. “Come dance with me.”

“What?”

“You’ve got nothing better to do. Come dance with me.”

Dylan’s pretty sure he’s having a fever dream- either that or he’s way drunker than he thought, because he just thinks for a second, sighs and throws back the rest of his drink as he stands up. 

“Fuck it.”

Mikey stands and holds out his hand for Dylan with a grin. Mikey’s smile isn’t something Dylan’s unfamiliar with by any means, but this one is completely different than usual. Instead of a condescending smirk or his signature ‘I’m a perfect angel who has done nothing wrong or bad to anyone but you’ smile, this one feels softer, somehow. More genuine. Dylan ignores the thoughts that try to enter his mind and shakes his head, following Mikey to the section of the house once known as the dining room that has been taken over by sweaty twenty-somethings singing Mariah Carey too loudly. Before Dylan can even form a coherent thought, Mikey’s hands are on his hips, pulling him so their bodies are so close to each other that Jesus probably wouldn’t even want them to make room for him. They stay like this, awkwardly swaying for a few songs before one of them speaks again. 

“I know you lost pong after me on purpose,” Dylan says, turning so he can puff himself up and use the single inch he has on Mikey to his advantage. 

Mikey doesn’t even deny it, just laughs and moves his arms so they’re resting on Dylan’s shoulders, making it seem like he’s the taller of the pair. “And what makes you think that?”

“I don’t think that, I know that, and I know it because that’s what you’ve always done. Even when we were kids you did shit like this. You always have to be superior to me, but the second I’m out of the picture you’re just trying to have a good time.”

“I can’t help that I’m better at beer pong than you,” Mikey shrugs, like he didn’t even hear everything else Dylan just said. 

“You’re such a fucking asshole, you know that? Why’d you even come to this party anyway? God, you make me so mad, I just want-”

“Kiss me.” 

Dylan’s brain shuts off and he’s pretty sure he’s Actually On Fire right now. Fuck Mikey for making him blush so much.

“I- What?”

“I mean, if you don’t want to that’s fine, but you’ll probably-” 

Mikey keeps speaking but Dylan doesn’t care, because at this point he knows there’s only one way to shut him up. He cuts him off with a hand on either side of his face and presses Mikey’s lips to his. Mikey kisses back for a second and pulls away, and for once he doesn’t have anything to say. Dylan takes this opportunity to take Mikey by the wrist and pull him upstairs. 

They kiss for a minute against the door of what Dylan’s pretty sure is Connor’s room, and he only feels a little bad when he finally gets it open and Mikey stumbles backward a few steps. 

“Dickhead,” Mikey mutters when he regains his balance, pulling Dylan until he’s in his lap with a hand in his hair.

“So, are you gonna do something or are you just gonna sit there?” Mikey asks, in that stupid fucking quiet, gentle, honey-sweet voice that makes Dylan so angry he has to take more than one deep breath.

“Shut up, asshole,” he groans, finally letting his hands wander a bit. It’s stupid that he ended up here, and he almost regrets coming to this party. 

Almost.

Then Mikey’s lips are on his, and he doesn’t remember what he was angry about.

+++

He wakes up late the next day, head pounding and hair a mess. Memories of the night prior flood back to him, but instead of coming in waves it all hits him at once like a ton of bricks. Or, like, a tsunami, if you wanna continue the ocean metaphor. Regardless, Dylan buries his face in his hands and flops backwards onto the futon where he spent the night.

He rolls over after a moment to check the time on his phone; he actually woke up before his alarm, somehow. Luckily Mikey is nowhere to be found, so he sighs and stands up, stretching as he heads to the bathroom to try and wash the McLeod off of him. He stands under burning hot water for a long while and stays there until it runs cold. He’s definitely gonna get shit for it later, but he’s nothing if not dramatic, and this is especially true when he’s stressed. 

He steps out of the bathroom a while later and heads to his room, flipping on the light. He hears some rustling from his bed followed by a loud groan and some sleepy grumbling. 

“Davo, what the hell! In my bed, really?” Dylan shouts, holding up a hand to block his view of a very shirtless Nate Bastian. 

Connor and Nate both scramble to find something to say, but before they can come up with anything, Dylan shoos them out and slams the door. He’s suddenly glad he chose Connor’s room to defile with his traitorous hookup. At least he didn’t do it in Connor’s fucking bed where he sleeps every night.

“Remind me to burn these sheets later.” He rubs his eyes for a moment and leans against the wall, seriously contemplating his life choices. He’s just laying down and opening Twitter when he hears a knock on the door.

“Who is it?” he calls with a groan, increasingly exhausted by the past two hours. 

“It’s Matty.”

“I told you I’ll get your bet money later, g-”

“It’s not about that, it’s- Can I come in?” Matty asks, sounding a little timid, like a child who isn’t sure if they’re going to get in trouble or not. 

Dylan sighs and opens the door, letting Matty walk in and take a seat on the side of Dylan’s bed not disheveled by someone else’s sex life. “What’s up?”

“What would you do if I told you I killed your fish?”

Dylan’s face falls. “You killed Swim Shady?! How did you even manage that? That fish was built like a fuckin’ tank, dude! It was practically indestructible! He lived through the carnival and having his water practically replaced by Connor’s weird expensive alcohol!”

“What about if I said I scratched your car?”

“Do you want me to actually murder you? Because Matty, I swear to fucking God, if-”

“I didn’t, I didn’t! I just wanted to show you how much worse it could be.”

“What happened, then?”

“Have you ever really, really liked someone you’re not supposed to like?”  
Dylan’s not sure where Matty’s going with this, so he just gives him a confused stare.

“Like who?”

Matty sighs, looking down and biting his lip. “I’m dating someone who goes to Oakleaf.” 

Dylan shrugs, not really that fazed by this information. “I can live with that. Lots of people date over there. What’s she like?”

“He,” Matty corrects under his breath. His tone suggests that there’s a lot more to unpack, but Dylan’s focused on being a good big brother right now.

“Oh. He.” Interesting but not really surprising new information about his brother, good to know. “Well, either way, it’s fine, Beans. I’m not mad at you. You can date whoever you want, as long as they’re not hurting you.”

“Promise?”

“Promise. There’s no way you can beat Davo in terms of sleeping with the enemy. Because he’s like, literally sleeping with the literal enemy.” He leaves out his own experience, slightly hoping that if he ignores it enough it won’t have actually happened. There are things to be said for the United States’ approach to teaching history.

“Well, he is on the hockey team..” Matty trails off, shifting nervously.

Dylan’s tone darkens a little, but he does his best to still sound supportive. 

“Oh. Who?”

Matty takes a deep breath, wincing when he mumbles his answer. 

“Ryan McLeod.”

“What?! Matty, the McLeods are all evil! You can’t trust them!”

“He’s not even that bad, Dyl. Can you please just trust my judgement on this?”

Dylan struggles for a moment and really thinks about saying no, but it doesn’t take too long for him to realize how hypocritical that would be. Even though nothing happened, ‘cause Dylan’s ignoring it. 

“Yeah.”

“So you’re not mad?”

“No. It’d be stupid to be actually mad at you for something like this.”

Matty smiles. “Yeah, it would.”

Dylan sighs and opens up his arms for a hug. “C’mere.” 

They embrace for a moment before Dylan pulls away, giving Matty a stern look and pointing a finger at him. “If he does anything to hurt you, tell me right. Away. Got it?”

Matty rolls his eyes and nods. “Yeah, yeah, obligatory big brother stuff. I got it.”

“Matty. Promise?”

“Promise.”

They hug one last time before Dylan sends him away. “Love you.”

“Love you, too.” 

He sighs, falling back on his bed and staring up at the ceiling.

Maybe he’ll have to make more room for McLeods than he expected. 

+++

Dylan’s standing at center ice, waiting for the first period to begin. He’s surprisingly calm despite all that’s happened in the past two days, but that’s kind of just what happens when he’s on the ice. It’s their first game of the season and he’s feeling good. Not much can ruin his mood right now.

Mikey takes his place across from Dylan for the faceoff and flashes him a grin that Dylan’s not sure if he wants to kiss or punch off. 

“Great day for hockey, ain’t it?” Leave it to Mikey to reference a hockey movie while he’s actually playing hockey.

“Seriously?” Dylan snorts, and Mikey smiles, and it’s just barely warmer than his usual smirks, and he definitely doesn’t think about how that feels. He wins the faceoff, focusing his attention on the game after that. Mikey’s not taking this from him. Not this time.

They win 3-2 in overtime, and Dylan’s maybe a little too proud of the glare it earns him when he reaches Mikey in the handshake line.

“Good game,” he smirks, and yeah, maybe he’s being a little petty. He doesn’t really care a few hours later, though, when he’s being pressed against a wall in Mikey’s bedroom and kissed roughly.

“You’re such a dick,” Mikey mutters with a pointed hip movement, and Dylan cuts him off with another kiss. 

“Yeah, yeah. Am I getting congratulations sex tonight or not?” he shoots back, nipping at Mikey’s skin before he can reply.

Mikey hums, rolling his eyes. “Whatever you’re getting, it won’t be congratulatory,” he responds, fumbling with the buttons on Dylan’s shirt and walking him towards the bed. “You know, you look great in this suit, but it’s stupid that it’s this hard to get it off.”

“Maybe you’re just bad at undoing buttons.” 

Mikey ignores him and kisses him again, pressing a knee between Dylan’s thighs. 

Dylan kisses back with a hand in Mikey’s hair, tugs on it a little bit and smirks at the noise indicating that Mikey doesn’t quite mind.

While he’s driving home that night, he ignores the fact that they didn’t need any alcohol this time.

+++

A few weeks later, Dylan wakes up in Mikey’s bed regretting pretty much all of his life choices. 

It’s the morning after their second game against each other this season. Dylan’s curled up under Mikey’s arm, wondering how he ended up here. Well, like. He doesn’t really have to wonder how he ended up here, specifically, like, in Mikey McLeod’s Bed Here, because he remembers that incredibly clearly. What he’s wondering is how the fuck he ended up sleeping with his Sworn Rival Since Literally Birth completely stone-cold sober not once, but twice.

They’d met up after their game last night. Dylan and Alex had stayed out to get something to eat, and he and Mikey got into some kind of argument that led to almost shouting, a little name-calling, an i’ll catch up with you later text and a lot of kissing. None of that’s blurry to him, he’s stuck on the actual concept of wanting to kiss Mikey the way he did last night. Wanting Mikey to kiss him that way.

Mikey’s holding him in a way that isn’t uncomfortable at all but is very constraining- he can’t even move to check his phone without waking Mikey up. He’s seen movies where people hook up and then one of them escapes in the morning so that everyone can avoid talking about their feelings. Mikey’s not gonna let him get off that easy, it seems. Even when he’s asleep, he’s finding ways to make Dylan’s life harder. 

He does move eventually, though, wriggling as gently as he can out of Mikey’s grasp. This, of course, earns him an indignant groan, which he shuts down with the soothing voice you use when a toddler doesn’t know where you’re going. 

“‘M not goin’ anywhere. I just have to go pee, which you should do, too,” he calls matter-of-factly from the en-suite that Mikey for some reason has. He returns a moment later, flicking water in Mikey’s face. “I am almost certain that you don’t want a UTI.”

Mikey squeaks at the sudden sensation of cold water hitting his face and whines indignantly at being woken up in such an inhumane manner. “What time is it?” he groans, rolling over.

Dylan checks his phone and reads him the time out loud, taking maybe a little too much satisfaction in the way his bones crack when he stretches. “9:47.”

Mikey sighs and sits up, joining Dylan and stretching himself. “Mm. You got anything important to do today? I’ll make you breakfast,” he offers. “If you want.”

Dylan blinks. He could say no- he’s pretty sure any sane person would in this situation, actually- but he doesn’t have anything to do today and he does want breakfast and he doesn’t want to escape this situation. It’s all a lot for him to handle, but he doesn’t have the time or brainpower to unpack that right now, so he just smiles and nods. 

“Yeah, I’d like that.”

He follows Mikey downstairs and leans against a wall, watching Mikey gather dishes and ingredients. “Do you want my help?” he asks, mainly because he feels obligated to and he needs a distraction from Mikey’s ass in those sweatpants. 

Mikey hums, handing Dylan a loaf of bread and some butter. “Here. You’re on toast detail.” 

Dylan gives a little salute and marches over to the toaster to see what he’s working with. “How many pieces do you want?” he asks, looking at Mikey over his shoulder.

Mikey thinks for a moment, and Dylan can see the wheels turning in his head. He’s about to say something else when Mikey responds. “Three.”

Dylan nods and gets to work on his toast-making. They work at their individual tasks in silence- Mikey’s making scrambled eggs- and Dylan hates how comfortable the silence feels. They finish at almost exactly the same time, Mikey scraping equal portions of egg onto two paper plates and presenting Dylan with one of them. They sit down and eat for a moment in silence, and Dylan’s the first to speak.

“I think that like... Maybe we should talk about this.”

Mikey’s taking a bite out of his makeshift egg sandwich, chewing around his words before he swallows. “Talk about what?” 

“Like, us. I guess. Like, what are we? God, that sounds stupid, I-” 

“No, you’re right,” Mikey sighs, setting down his food. “I mean, it kinda comes down to what you want us to be.”

Dylan bites his lip. Why does he have to be the one to make the decision? “I just... I don’t know. I want us to be Us, I think,” he responds nervously, hoping it gets across that the second Us is different.

Mikey nods, and he seems to understand. “I think I want that, too, actually.”

Dylan smiles, and it’s weird, but he feels good more than anything. “Cool.”

“Cool.”

Dylan leans over a couple inches and presses a kiss to Mikey’s cheek. It’s soft and quick and a lot gentler than they’re used to, and it leaves Mikey blushing like a schoolgirl. He returns to his eggs, smiling down at his plate.

He could get used to this.

+++

Things stay like that for a while, quiet and warm. Dylan knows it can’t be like this forever, but he holds onto it while he can. 

As expected, it doesn’t last. 

He’s not even sure why the argument started, but somehow Dylan has found himself in a screaming match with Mikey over something a lot bigger than where they began. 

“What are you so afraid of, Mikey?” 

“Nothing! I just- fuck, I don’t know, Dyls. I’m not ready for people to see us as-”

“Boyfriends?” Dylan scoffs, incredulous. “Because that’s what we are, Mikey, and I think you know that.” 

Mikey says nothing, so Dylan continues. “God, I can’t stand you! I hate when you do shit like this.”

“Dylan-”

“No! I’m not done. I hate that you’re so afraid of actually being with me that you’d rather have everyone still think I actually do hate you. I hate that you’re such a cocky fucking asshole. You always have to outdo me, and I’ve never understood why. And, God, I hate your stupid fucking face and your perfect hair and your smile and how all of that shit makes me feel. I hate how you look good no matter how weird your outfit is and how much you quote The Mighty Ducks. But you know what I hate the most? I hate that I don’t actually hate any of that, because I can’t hate it. I can’t hate you, because I love you. I love you so fucking much, Mikey.” Dylan’s out of breath and he has tears in his eyes by the time he finishes.

“I- you- you what?” Mikey asks, like he doesn’t understand what Dylan’s saying to him. 

“I fucking love you, you asshole!” 

Mikey blinks, processing the information that’s just been thrown at him. Dylan’s never said that before. It’s a lot, and he loves Dylan too, but he’s never been good with emotions, and he doesn’t know what to say. 

Dylan’s about to leave when Mikey stops him, a gentle hand on his wrist. Dylan could pull away if he wanted to, but he doesn’t, so Mikey takes a shaky breath and speaks. 

“I love you too. And I’m an idiot. And I’m sorry,” he lists. “No more hiding. I’m ready to be with you. Really be with you. I promise.”

Dylan chokes back a little sob, catching his breath and throwing his arms around Mikey. “I’m just tired of lying to everyone. Lying to myself.”

Mikey gently strokes Dylan’s hair and kisses his head. “I know. I’m sorry. You don’t have to anymore. I love you so much. I should’ve said it before, I was just scared. But I’m not scared anymore. No more lying.” 

Dylan nods, and he knows Mikey means it. Knows they’re going to be okay.

“Just fucking kiss me, McLeod.”

And he does.


End file.
